Dragonseed (25 page)

 “I’m not a cannibal.”

“Dragons talk,” Zeeky said. “Even you can understand them. I talk with dogs and owls and horses. I talk with long-wyrms and ravens and pigs. They’re all smart creatures who don’t deserve to be eaten.”

Poocher snorted, as if saying, “Amen!” Bitterwood didn’t plan on giving up bacon, but right now wasn’t the time to debate it.

“I don’t want you eating dragons any more,” she said.

 “Do you mind if I go in now? I should warn you I might kill a dragon or two trying to save your brother.”

“There’s a difference between killing to eat and killing to save a life,” she said patiently.

Bitterwood grabbed a fist-sized chunk of half-inch rope from the saddle bags. The rope was lightweight; it was also a vibrant shade of pink that glowed faintly in the gloom. They’d found this fragment of rope in the kingdom of the goddess. It was, as near as he could determine, unbreakable. It was also sensitive to his thoughts, just as Gabriel’s sword had been. It would grow as long as he wanted it to grow and never get any heavier. With a thought, the rope would shrink back to this convenient size. He had no idea why it worked, but, like his new bow and arrow, he found it hard to remember how he’d ever gotten along without it.

“I scouted this area five years ago,” he said. “I wiggled down some of chimney holes into the main cavern. I came here to kill Rorg, but had to abandon the mission. Since he was always surrounded by his family, it was too risky a fight.”

“The way you throw yourself into a fight, I didn’t know you were worried about risk,” said Zeeky.

“I spent a lot of years tracking down dragons responsible for the atrocities at Conyers,” he said. “Albekizan, was, of course, the big target. Rorg was there too. He was a few hundred pounds lighter, and a good deal less insane. By the time I tracked him down, he’d gotten too heavy to fly. His beastialist philosophy made him more of a joke than a threat. I decided to focus my efforts on other targets. I always knew I’d be back.”

“If this dragon’s a joke, saving Jeremiah shouldn’t be so hard.”

“It’s not Rorg I’m worried about,” Bitterwood said as he tied one end of the rope to a tree. “It’s the few dozen other bulls who are part of the clan. Until now, I didn’t really have a good way of carrying in enough arrows to make sure the job got done.” He reached back and fingered one of the arrows in his quiver. “I’ll try to do this quietly. If you start hearing screams, don’t be alarmed.”

He walked to one of the smoke vents and dropped the rope down. “Stay in the shadows,” he said. “You’ve got six hours until daylight. If I’m not back, ride up the mountain and find a safe place to wait out the day. Meet me back here at sunset.”

Bitterwood slung the bow over his shoulder and backed into the hole, the smoke tickling his nose. He climbed down the twisting, natural chimney, his hands growing increasingly black with soot. He reached a junction where the shaft opened into another shaft. The hole was barely two feet across. He shoved his bow through, then his quiver, balancing them on narrow ledges. He shed his cloak and wiggled through, then reached back and grabbed the cloak. He willed the rope to lengthen, letting it dangle down the shaft to the next level spot fifty feet below. From there, he would have to crawl through a shaft only three feet tall for almost a quarter mile, until he reached the side cave where Rorg’s slaves slept.

He doubted that they would be sleeping much tonight. The deep bass rumble of the singing sun-dragons shook the stone. A haunting melody accompanied it, played on an instrument Bitterwood couldn’t identify. It sounded something like bells, only not as metallic in tone. He could make out various bits of the lyrics.
Dragons are mighty, humans are weak,
and other such puffery. As long as they were singing, their attention would be focused on Rorg.

He wriggled through the last narrow gap of the long tunnel and found himself in a cavity of a rock wall thirty feet up in a large, round chamber. Several small fires were scattered around the cave. Perhaps a hundred humans sat around the fires, staring sullenly into the flames. The singing from the nearby dragon rally echoed within the room.

“With our claws we rend their flesh!”
the dragons sang.
“With our jaws we crush them! Their blood slakes our thirst!”
Beastialist lyrics weren’t famed for their subtlety.

Bitterwood dropped the rope into the room. Instantly, every eye turned toward the motion. Frightened humans tended to be hyper-alert. Fortunately, no one screamed.

Bitterwood held his fingers to his lips, signaling for silence, then rappelled down to the floor. The walls were slimy. Due to the condensation of breath, the whole cavern glistened as if it were coated with a fine layer of spit. Urine and shit fouled the air. The humans were boiling turnips in carved stone bowls sitting in the fire pits.

Everyone rose as he reached the ground. These humans were a wretched lot. They were clothed in thread-bare rags. Both men and women had their hair cropped close to the scalp in uneven clumps, no doubt to make it easier to pick off fleas and lice. All stood with slumped shoulders. They stared with sunken eyes set in faces that were little more than skulls covered with paper-thin, boil-covered skin.

“I’m looking for a new arrival,” said Bitterwood. “A blond boy, no older than twelve. His name is Jeremiah.” Not a voice was raised as the crowd watched him with unblinking gazes. “He would have arrived about a week ago." He waited. Did they understand him?

“Our wings block the sun!”
the dragons sang.
“The earth trembles as we land!”

A woman took a tentative step forward. She was covered in brown smudges, thin as a sapling, and perhaps seven months pregnant. She cradled a small bundle wrapped in rags. The bundle wasn’t moving; if it was a baby, Bitterwood hoped it was asleep. She cast her gaze toward the floor as she spoke, in a voice so soft and hesitant he barely understood it: “He’s gone.”

“Gone?” Bitterwood asked. “Dead?”

The woman shook her head. “Vulpine took him.”

“Took him where?”

“Dragon Forge?” the woman said. She didn’t sound certain of this.

Bitterwood furrowed his brow. Why would the Slavecatcher General want Jeremiah? And why would he take him to Dragon Forge? His heart froze in his chest.

“Was the boy well?”

The woman shrugged.

“No sign of yellow-mouth?”

The woman raised her head when he mentioned the disease.

“We’ve lost hundreds to yellow-mouth since winter came. Most of us who’re left have survived it and are immune. The boy said he’d never been exposed.”

Nor, for that matter, had Bitterwood. The foul atmosphere suddenly felt especially heavy in his lungs.

“Who are you?” the woman asked.

“I’m nobody.” He turned away, taking the rope in hand. If Jeremiah was gone, there was no reason to linger.

“Your cloak… your bow… are you the hope of the slave? Are you Bitterwood?”

Bitterwood flinched at these words. He didn’t mind that his legend was widespread among dragons. The more dragons who feared him, the better. But he regretted that so many humans knew his name. To dragons he was death incarnate, a soulless, faceless force of nature stalking them in every shadow. There was a dark thing inside him that shivered with delight knowing he caused so much fear. This same darkness had no desire to be anyone’s hope.

He looked back at the sad, hungry, skeletal crowd. Any one of them, even the pregnant woman, could have climbed through the dragon-free tunnels he’d navigated. True, they didn’t have the advantage of a magical rope, but he’d explored these tunnels five years ago without one.

“Why do you stay here?” he asked, his voice low. “There’s an open path between this cavern and freedom. It’s a risky climb, but certainly better than remaining here.”

“Anyone who runs winds up as part of the bone-field,” the woman said.

The darkness inside Bitterwood rose up in a great angry wave. “You fear death more than you value your freedom,” he said. “Humans outnumber dragons. All that keeps the dragons in power is the cowardice of mankind.”

The crowd flinched at his words. Grown men fell to their knees, as if he’d kicked their feet out from under them. Tears welled in the pregnant woman’s eyes.

“You have no right to scold us,” she said, swallowing a sob. “Who are you to judge us?”

Bitterwood turned back to the rope. The dark thing that had once been his soul now clawed at his skull from the inside, shouting curses. In truth, as much as Bitterwood hated dragons, he held a special contempt for other humans. He’d once been this soft. He’d once been a slave to fear and doubt. Hatred had burned away these weaknesses. Why did other humans not share this hate?

“You’re just going to leave us?” the woman asked as he took the rope into his hand and began to climb the wall.

“What if your own wife or child was a slave?” she asked.

Bitterwood stopped climbing. Recanna and Ruth and Eve, his now dead wife and daughters, had been sold into slavery after the fall of Christdale. He’d thought them dead, when in truth they’d lived as the king’s property for almost twenty years. Did he hate them for not escaping? If they had been among this rabble, would he have held them in the same scorn?

The dark thing inside suddenly grew quiet. Bitterwood dropped back to the floor. In the chamber beyond, the dragons stopped singing.

“Anyone who has the courage can climb this rope,” he said, facing the crowd. “Follow it and you’ll be outside. From there, you can go wherever you wish.”

“What if Rorg’s sons catch us?” the woman asked in a trembling voice.

Bitterwood drew an arrow and placed it against his bowstring.

“No dragon will follow you.”

Without waiting to see what they would choose to do, he sprinted toward the tunnel that led to the main chamber. A faint glow lit the tunnel, the light from the fire pit that Rorg’s clan gathered around. He sprinted along, hugging the walls. With his soot-darkened cloak and skin, he would be almost invisible among the deep shadows thrown off by the bonfire.

As he reached the central chamber, he dropped to a crouch.

Rorg, pot bellied and elephant-limbed, stood before the crowd of sun-dragons. There were too many for Bitterwood to count. This was a welcome development in the confined space. Only one or two at a time would be able to squeeze into the tunnel he was currently in. His main worry was that he would block the tunnel with corpses too quickly. His eyes searched about the room, the forest of stalactites and stalagmites, the countless nooks and alcoves and tunnels, looking for the best spot to make his stand. He had the luxury of picking the proper moment to strike. The dragons remained focused on Rorg.

“Treachery!” Rorg shouted. “The foul villain Vulpine nearly crippled Thak with his unholy weapons, taking advantage of our honor and fairness. He challenged my son to single combat, then resorting to the trickery of a blade! Can this injustice be allowed to stand?”

“No!” the beastialists roared. Bitterwood’s teeth rattled in the wave of sound.

“Sons! Brothers! Honored friends! Join me in my cause of vengeance! We will march upon the Dragon Palace! We shall throw the interloper Chapelion from the throne! We will end the moral plague that has sickened our fellow dragons! The time has come to rule as nature intended. From shore to mountain, we must make this land one endless bone-field! We are predators! All others are prey! That is the only law!”

The dragons erupted into a frenzy of roaring and shouting, hungry for blood. Bitterwood pursed his lips in grim satisfaction. He no longer cared what Zeeky thought. He was having a dragon steak for breakfast.

He drew his arrow. Unfortunately, Rorg, who’d been standing on his hind legs, dropped back to all fours. Bitterwood no longer had a good shot at the big beast. Killing Rorg with a single arrow through his ear-disk would have sent panic through the room. He scanned the remaining targets, trying to decide whose death would have the most dramatic impact.

As the seconds unfolded, the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd fell off, replaced with a confused murmur. Long, serpentine necks began to sway as heads turned toward the back of the chamber. Bitterwood lowered his bow. What was going on?

“Rorg,” said a deep voice from behind the assembly, obviously that of another sun-dragon. “I hear you plan to make yourself king.”

With all eyes focused on the new arrival at the back of the room, Bitterwood scrambled for a ledge he saw on the western wall. It was about twenty feet up, with a good view of the whole room. Beyond was a hole deep enough that he could safely retreat from the jaws of anyone who tried to reach him. It was also high enough that the piling corpses wouldn’t keep him from seeing new targets.

As he scrambled up the slimy rock, the crowd of dragons grew deathly quiet. There was a clanking, clanging sound that reminded Bitterwood of the movements of the now-dead sun-dragon Kanst—the former commander of the king’s army had always covered himself in thick plates of iron armor. Bitterwood reached the ledge and turned around. The new arrival was indeed a sun-dragon wearing armor—it looked like it might actually be Kanst’s armor, given the high level of craftsmanship. A heavy helmet concealed the dragon’s face; chain mail covered his throat. His breast and back were protected by overlapping plates of steel. Even his tail was covered with bands of armor, ending at the tip with a heavy-looking ball studded with blades—a new accessory if this was, in fact, Kanst’s armor. A large square shield was slung over his back. Only the great sheets of the dragon’s wings were unprotected, but that was of little help. In the air, shooting a dragon in the wing could be fatal with a little assistance from gravity. On the ground, punching holes in a dragon’s wings would do little more than annoy him.

The armored dragon lugged what looked like a bulging cow’s stomach. Bitterwood thought this was an odd thing to be carrying; from the way the pale blue-white sack roiled with the dragon’s motion, it was obviously filled with something liquid. In the dragon’s other fore-talon he carried a formidable looking steel-handled axe. Bitterwood’s heart skipped a beat when he recognized the weapon—it was the axe of the prophet Hezekiah, an axe that had almost taken his life not long ago. Who was this?